


Feathers

by jane_potter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Grooming, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Other, Porn Battle, Slash, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2011-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, hands folded in his lap, shirt and sweater vest discarded. And his wings, of course, are out. Crowley's breath is warm on the back of his neck, stirring faintly the soft down between his shoulder blades. They are five seconds away from kissing, fifteen seconds from sex-- and yet they couldn't be farther away. Who gives up love-making in exchange for... rutting?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for oxoniensis' Porn Battle 11. Prompt: feathers. This may be the first G-rated (pseudo-)sex scene you ever read. I wrote in a scramble to get at least _some_ wing!fic into the Porn Battle. ;)

Sunlight peeks into the bedroom through slits in Crowley's closed blinds, casting bright threads here and there along clean whiteness. He refuses to touch Aziraphale's wings in the full, brilliant light of day, in a room full of plate glass windows open to the sky and everything above it.

Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, hands folded in his lap, shirt and sweater vest discarded. And his wings, of course, are out. Crowley's breath is warm on the back of his neck, stirring faintly the soft down between his shoulder blades. They are five seconds away from kissing, fifteen seconds from sex-- and yet they couldn't be farther away. Who gives up love-making in exchange for... rutting?

Crowley's nimble fingers slide through Aziraphale's feathers, smoothing and ordering the roughed-up plumage. Aziraphale sighs from time to time at the ease of a normalised itch which, until now, had built and gone unnoticed for decades. The scent of feather oil and dust is heavy in the air.

They sit in what humans call a 'deafening' silence, but Aziraphale and Crowley, they know what the silence really is. Every molecule in the air around them them is screaming, shivering with the furious urge to bounce but suspended in place by the sub-planar vibration given off by what they are doing.

On one level, Crowley's fingers stroke Aziraphale's primaries, spreading hands-breadths of gold-barred feathers down flat and sleek, straightening and stroking and smoothing just so. On another level entirely, he is _in_ the essence that is those feathers, beneath the protons and electrons and quivering physical matter.

Aziraphale's body shudders. Inside it, Aziraphale writhes. Crowley knows, and moves his trembling hands up to another section of rumpled feathers, and pushes deeper. Gently, with the utmost of care, he touches every inch of the raw, sensitive parts of Aziraphale's essence that come out as wings, vulnerable and oversensitive on a plane that was never meant to hold them.

At some point-- Aziraphale doesn't know when-- the air in the room goes very, very thin. A human would die in it. Dizzy and half-delirious, he's pulled every molecule of matter into his trembling wings, leaving nothing left to form oxygen or nitrogen or anything at all. Crowley draws a breath of empty air and lets it out slowly, and the stream of exhaled molecules over his wings makes Aziraphale nearly cry out loud.

The climax of it is quiet, understated, a denoument as slow and inevitable as the drift of continental plates. Aziraphale's wings are left broad and shining, gold bars glistening on the softer, muted silver-ash of the clean plumes. Crowley quietly sweeps up the loose and discarded feathers into a pile on the bedspread, silent on more than one level. Aziraphale rubs his eyes and cracks his neck in a daze, trying to pull himself back together. The air stops shrieking, leaving them in a prickling, shuddery hush.

"Now you do me," Crowley says, and in the slow, suspended dimness of the bedroom, the brightness of his eyes is the only thing left in the world.


End file.
